"Some truths walk beside silence, until the stars begin to move."
Jedi Temple — Upper Landing Pads
Sunrise
The sky over Coruscant was still trying to decide whether it was day or not.
Light crept between the spires, silver and reluctant, staining the horizon in layers of soft gold and weary blue. The Jedi Temple's uppermost platforms shimmered beneath it, their durasteel panels still damp from night dew. Slow gusts of wind whispered through the open walkways between the landing pads, catching the corners of cloaks, lifting them like flags about to be raised.
A Senate diplomatic cruiser descended from the clouds.
Its hull bore the markings of the Supreme Chancellor's office, though it arrived without fanfare. The exhaust vents hissed faintly as the landing struts touched down. A few Temple maintenance droids moved in quietly to secure the perimeter.
From the side hatch, Senator Finis Valorum emerged.
Dressed in formal robes suited for a diplomatic envoy, he walked with the clipped pace of someone used to negotiation rooms, not elevated landing platforms exposed to wind and altitude.
He moved with purpose—until he turned toward the next platform.
There, assembled and ready, stood the Jedi.
Master Tyvokka stood at the fore, towering and immovable, his robes layered and ceremonial for the mission. Beside him, Plo Koon adjusted the seals on his rebreather mask, silent as always but watchful. Adi Gallia had already begun a quiet conversation with a protocol officer. Obi-Wan stood near his Master, hands clasped, posture straight but fidgeting in the way that marked a Padawan trying not to appear eager.
And at the center of them all stood—
Elai.
Clad in a simple black tunic, boots secured, sabers magnetized at his back.
He stood like he belonged there.
Not defiant. Not proud.
Simply certain.
Valorum stopped walking.
He stared, confused at first—then visibly unsettled. He glanced at the Jedi around Elai, then back to the boy's face.
Elai tilted his head, calm.
Then, with a faint tilt of humor in his voice:
"Hello there."
Beat.
"Is something wrong?"
The wind shifted. A chuckle escaped from Plo Koon—just the smallest huff through the mask vents.
Valorum blinked, re-centered himself. "That… that child. Is he—?"
"Yes," Qui-Gon Jinn said, stepping forward casually. "That is the one."
Valorum looked between them again. "The one Tyvokka mentioned?"
"The very same," Qui-Gon replied, clearly enjoying the moment. "Trained in the Temple. Quietly. Focused. This diplomatic mission is the perfect next step in his learning."
Valorum raised a brow, watching Elai from a distance.
"You sent me reports. None of them described this."
"I didn't send the reports," Qui-Gon said. "Perhaps next time, you'll ask the right questions."
"Or the right Jedi," Tyvokka added behind him, voice rumbling.
Valorum let out a quiet breath. There was no refusal in his posture. Only consideration. He studied Elai a moment longer.
"You're sure he's ready for this?"
Qui-Gon's reply was simple. "He already proved that. Just ask the thirteen Knights still trying to explain what happened."
Valorum looked down, then gave a dry chuckle. "If nothing else, I expect the Senators won't know how to handle him."
"They won't need to," said Tyvokka. "He's not here to speak for the Republic."
Valorum gave a final look to Elai. The boy hadn't moved, but something in his presence kept drawing the eye. Not power. Not arrogance.
A strange stillness.
One that made others question whether the silence was his… or theirs.
"…Very well," the Senator said at last. "Let's begin."
He moved toward the transport.
The Jedi followed.
And behind them, the sun finally broke free of the clouds—casting the first full light across the Temple as the ship prepared for the eighteen-hour flight to Troiken.
Aboard the diplomatic transport — in transit to Troiken
The soft hum of hyperspace cloaked the vessel like a second skin, smoothing each pulse of motion into steady rhythm. Within the long meeting chamber near the ship's midsection, artificial light cast pale reflections against the metal walls. A table stretched between two benches—rarely used, meant for quiet conversation or private negotiation.
Senator Valorum sat at one end, posture loose but eyes watchful. Across from him sat Elai.
Clad in a simple black tunic, boots secured, sabers magnetized at his back, the boy rested one elbow against the table, chin propped against his palm. His hair was still a little uneven at the edges—left to grow wild in places—but his presence was unmistakably settled, calm in the way open space was calm: wide, listening, aware.
Valorum exhaled lightly through his nose.
"You're famous now, you know."
Elai blinked. "Am I?"
"There are Senators who've never set foot near a Temple asking to see your duel footage. I've heard at least three sectors' worth of rumors. Some believe you're a warrior prophet. Others think you're a mistake the Jedi refuse to admit. And more than a few are... concerned."
Elai's brow furrowed.
"Why?"
"You faced thirteen Jedi. And didn't fall until the Force itself told you to stop. Some say that if someone like you ever turned to the wrong side..."
He hesitated, watching Elai's face.
The boy tilted his head, thoughtful.
"What's the wrong side?"
Valorum blinked. "Well… the dark side. Corruption. Power twisted into control."
"But isn't that just a side someone chooses when they think it's right?"
Valorum sat up straighter. "It's a dangerous way of seeing it."
"I didn't say it was good," Elai said, quietly. "Just that maybe both sides think they're right. Maybe the Force doesn't split clean. Maybe it sings, and we call it light when we like the sound. Dark when we don't."
There was no defiance in his tone. Only a child's honesty, shaped by strange wisdom.
Valorum leaned back.
"I don't think the Senate's ready for that kind of thinking."
"Maybe that's the problem," Elai replied.
At that moment, Obi-Wan entered the room, datapad in hand. He didn't interrupt—just lifted the device and offered it wordlessly.
"What is it?" Elai asked.
Obi-Wan hesitated. "You should see."
The screen flickered.
A video.
Dozens of lightsabers ignited. A child, still and waiting. Then motion—impossibly fast. A blur of twin blue blades dancing through a storm of strikes. Dodging, reading, reacting. Not defying them. Simply outpacing them.
Elai stared.
He watched himself.
And hated it.
He looked smaller on screen—yet more dangerous. The angles were clean. The audio cut in and out over the crowd's breathless awe. Somewhere in the background, Dooku's voice echoed: "If this is what a child does to your tradition, perhaps it is not the child who must change."
Elai lowered the pad.
"I didn't ask to be recorded."
Qui-Gon entered just then, arms folded casually, tone light but steady.
"No. You didn't. And we don't know who did it. But it's out now. That might be a gift."
"A gift?"
"It means you don't have to hide," Qui-Gon said. "It means people will watch now. Some to judge. Some to understand. But it also means others—those without power—might see something worth standing beside when the time comes."
Elai didn't respond at first. His eyes dropped to the dark tunic. His fingers brushed the edge of the fabric.
"This isn't mine," he murmured.
Qui-Gon arched his brow. "No?"
"I found it folded near my bunk. With a note."
"What did the note say?"
"That I needed more clothes."
Elai looked up at him slowly.
Obi-Wan, across the room, coughed into his sleeve and turned discreetly toward the wall.
Qui-Gon chuckled under his breath, the sound deep and quiet.
"It suits you," he said.
Elai didn't smile, but his gaze warmed, just slightly.
He looked down again at the black tunic. At the new boots. At the twin sabers resting at his back—clean, aligned, waiting.
"Do you think they'll try again?" Elai asked softly.
Qui-Gon sat beside him now, his tone less playful.
"Some might. But not the same way. They've seen enough to know you don't walk their path."
"And that scares them?"
"Some," Qui-Gon said. "But others are listening."
Valorum watched them both for a long moment.
"Is this what the Jedi are now?" he asked. "Children stronger than the Order, and Knights who question the rules?"
Qui-Gon glanced at him, eyes calm.
"No. This is what the Force is now."
Hours Later, Outer Lounge Chamber
The low hum of the hyperdrive had become background noise—steady, rhythmic, like the echo of breath through metal halls. Most of the diplomatic party had drifted off to their corners: meditation alcoves, briefings, or rest. The room held only a handful of quiet voices now. A table. A view pane. The occasional flicker of stars beyond hyperspace.
Elai sat near the viewport, silent, one knee drawn to his chest. His gaze wasn't focused on the stars, but on something inward—his mind working quietly.
The others had gone back to their thoughts.
But then he turned, slowly, to Qui-Gon.
"…If I don't have to hide anymore," Elai asked, voice low, "does that mean… Can I use them?"
The phrasing was deliberate.
Oblique.
But Qui-Gon understood at once.
He didn't answer. Not immediately.
His expression shifted—thoughtful, edged in caution. He glanced once to Obi-Wan across the room, who looked up curiously, then back to Elai.
"You can," Qui-Gon said. "But why now?"
Elai exhaled. "During the test… I ran into resistance. Deep resistance. I pushed through it. But…"
He trailed off. The meaning lingered.
He could've done more.
With them.
Obi-Wan tilted his head. "Them…?"
Before anyone could ask further, footsteps echoed outside the chamber—then the door slid open.
Plo Koon stepped in, followed by Adi Gallia. They must have heard something through the ship's internal feed, or perhaps felt the tension bloom in the Force.
"What's this about?" Adi asked, arms folded.
Obi-Wan answered, still confused. "He said he could've done better… with them."
"'Them' what?" one of the Knights asked.
A pause.
Qui-Gon's hand folded beneath his chin. He studied Elai carefully now, no longer shielding the seriousness of the moment.
"…It's your choice," he said. "But understand—it could be seen as a challenge. Or an opening. This mission is sensitive. Unstable. Revealing more of yourself may shift how others act."
"It might backfire," he added.
Elai's gaze remained calm.
"Or it might help," he said. "If they're watching already… maybe they should see what else there is."
He rose.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The sabers at his back unlatched without his hands moving.
With a slow exhale, Elai extended both arms outward. The hilts hovered a moment—drawn not by gesture, but through the Force.
And then, before their eyes—
The crystals shifted.
Not physically replaced.
Not ejected and swapped.
But something within the sabers reversed,unfolded,revealed.
A twin hum filled the chamber—not the familiar whine of plasma ignition, but the resonance of energy realigning. The Force pulsed outward like a pressure wave… and when the blades ignited:
—His left hand shone white, radiant and pure, encased in a silver outline like a mirrored flame.
—His right hand bloomed black, a core of destruction pulsing outward with subtle crimson radiance, edged in shadow.
Gasps.
Startled stares.
Even the ship itself seemed to pause, as if recognizing the gravity of what had just been witnessed.
"What… what is that?" one of the Padawans whispered.
Adi Gallia took a slow step forward. Her eyes didn't leave the right-hand saber.
"That… color," she said, voice sharper than usual. "That is not for Jedi hands."
Obi-Wan flinched. "That's a Sith color."
"It's impossible to wield both," Adi said, jaw tight. "One is meant to purify. The other… to destroy."
"They're not supposed to exist together."
All eyes turned to Elai.
The boy looked at the twin blades for a moment longer.
Then extinguished them in silence.
The hilts floated back to his back—magnetized once more—and clicked into place.
He turned, calm.
"They're different," he said quietly.
Not defensive.
Not arrogant.
Just… truth.
"They're not what the records say. They're not for sides. They're for paths."
No one replied.
Plo Koon studied him with unreadable silence.
Adi Gallia opened her mouth to argue—then closed it again, unsettled.
The silence lingered—not stunned, but measured.
As if every breath in the chamber had slowed to match the hum that still echoed in memory, even after the sabers had gone quiet.
No one moved.
The light of hyperspace flickered across the walls, pale and cold.
Plo Koon finally stepped forward, mechanical voice quiet.
"The left… white flame, silver-banded. I've only seen it in archived visions. Not a living memory."
He turned to the right hilt, where it now rested at Elai's back.
"And the other… It isn't red, not truly. It's void. Darkness drawn into form, outlined by heat. That saber burns around the absence."
Obi-Wan stares. "…Like it's swallowing light."
"Yes," Plo murmured.
"The black," Adi Gallia said, "tone now tighter, "has been seen in one place before. Not among the Jedi. Not even the Sith, truly."
She folded her arms, uncertain whether to pace or preach.
"In ancient records—some before even Ossus—we found mention of Force-wielders who shaped crystals not through alignment, but through revelation. Their blades reflected internal truths, not affiliations. The black cores were never born of rage. They were forged from… severance."
"Severance?" Obi-Wan asked.
"From innocence," she said. "From certainty. From any illusion that power is ever clean."
The words hung heavy.
Several of the Knights shifted uncomfortably.
"But the red," one Padawan said hesitantly, "that still means the dark side, doesn't it?"
"No," Elai said at last.
His voice was soft, but it carried.
"The color doesn't mean anything. It's what the saber does."
He walked forward, toward the center of the chamber—toward them all—not as a challenger, but as someone unwilling to leave silence unexplained.
"The white—it's for shelter. When I stand with others. When I protect what must not be broken."
His hand hovered near the left saber's hilt.
"It doesn't burn to wound. It burns to hold."
Then his hand drifted toward the right.
"The dark one isn't evil. It doesn't whisper. It doesn't hunger."
He paused.
"It's what I reach for when I must end something. When words are gone. When I become the last warning."
The group seemed unsure whether to step closer or pull away.
Qui-Gon stood behind them now, silent, letting the moment stretch. His eyes were not worried. Only patient.
"Did you build them like this?" Adi Gallia asked, more teacher than accuser now.
Elai shook his head. "They came this way."
"That's not possible."
"It happened anyway."
His voice did not rise. It had no edge.
But it closed the argument.
Plo Koon turned his gaze back to Elai, then to the others.
"If what we saw is true—then we cannot judge these colors by the past. They're not echoes. They're signs."
"Signs of what?" Obi-Wan asked, still wide-eyed.
"That the Force is moving," Plo said simply.
Adi Gallia looked like she wanted to argue. But no words came.
The room fell quiet again.
No blades were drawn. No sabers hummed.
But something had changed.
Not in Elai.
In them.
For the first time, they had seen a shape of the Force they hadn't been trained to expect. One that didn't fit the archives. One that didn't ask for permission to exist.
The silence had stretched long enough to settle into something heavier than quiet. The gathered Jedi had witnessed the impossible—a boy who held both sabers, one radiating white-silver clarity, the other pulsing with black-red gravity. It had unsettled even the experienced.
Adi Gallia stood rigid near the bulkhead, arms folded tight, her expression taut with control. Plo Koon watched Elai without judgment, but his breath was deeper than usual. Obi-Wan was still processing—his youthful mind looping possibilities. Even Valorum, who had remained silent during most of the scene, hovered near the threshold of the chamber, eyeing the boy as if he were a live wire stretched across state policy.
Then a sound shifted the room.
A quiet creak, wood against robe.
Master Tyvokka, seated deeper in the chamber beside the central table, raised his head.
The Wookiee did not speak often.
When he did, even hyperspace seemed to listen.
"You are not the first Jedi to wield a blade of darkness," he said through the soft murmur of his translation collar.
The others turned.
Tyvokka's voice held neither alarm nor challenge. Only a deep and ponderous weight.
"There was one before. Tarre Vizsla. Jedi Knight. Mandalorian. A warrior of paradox."
Obi-Wan straightened. "The Darksaber."
"Yes. Forged long before this Republic. During the early centuries. When the Jedi still walked alone through wild space." Tyvokka continued.
"His saber reflected his bloodline—black in core, sharp in purpose, humming with a hunger to act. Yet he was a Jedi. Chosen. Trained. Bound not by fear, but by oath."
Elai listened intently, eyes wide but quiet.
"Why aren't there more like him?" he asked, eventually. "If he bridged both… shouldn't others have followed?"
Tyvokka's gaze fell on the boy—steady, amber, and unreadable.
"Many tried. But the Order grew wary. Mandalorians... were not known for peace. Vizsla's blade was kept in the Temple. Locked away. His legacy—complicated."
"The Jedi became careful. Perhaps too careful."
Adi Gallia cut in sharply. "We had reason to be."
Qui-Gon turned his head slightly, watching her.
She didn't back down.
"That saber, the Darksaber—it became a symbol of violence. Carried by warlords, stolen, reforged by clans who had no love for peace."
"But he wasn't like them," Elai said.
"No," Tyvokka agreed.
"Tarre Vizsla wielded it with balance. Until others feared what it symbolized more than they trusted what it achieved."
"So they buried the memory."
Obi-Wan's voice was hesitant now.
"Is Elai's saber… like that?"
Tyvokka turned back to Elai. He didn't speak immediately. The pause wasn't uncertainty—it was reverence.
"No. He is not the same. The black in his blade is not tempered by armor, or pride. It is emptiness made visible. Not a warrior's weapon. A witness."
Even Adi fell quiet at that.
Elai let his hand rest lightly against the hilt once more—not drawing, only touching.
"I didn't build them to mean anything," he said quietly. "They just became what they are."
Plo Koon finally spoke, his voice like stone worn smooth.
"Perhaps that's why they matter."
The conversation might have moved on—had Elai not spoken again.
He stayed seated, elbows on his knees, eyes steady.
"…What were they like?"
Tyvokka turned toward him again.
"The Mandalorians," Elai clarified. "The ones who forged weapons. I… remember pieces. But not clearly. Something in it feels… close."
A flicker passed through Plo Koon's gaze, subtle but sharp.
Adi Gallia narrowed her eyes.
Qui-Gon only watched.
Tyvokka tilted his head slightly—ancient comprehension stirring behind his amber eyes.
"Mandalorians were not only warriors. They were makers."
"Each weapon they carried was not mass-produced, but born of purpose. Forged with intention. Bound to the clan, the battle, the name. Even armor was spoken to as it cooled. They believed the forge was sacred. That the act of creation was the soul's measure."
Elai closed his eyes briefly, as if listening for something far away.
When he spoke again, his voice trembled—quiet, not from fear but intensity.
"That… feels like the truth."
The room quieted again.
Obi-Wan gave Qui-Gon a sideways glance. "He means that literally, doesn't he?"
Qui-Gon nodded, arms folded.
"I think he does."
Elai's fingers curled slightly over his knees. Not tense—anchored.
"When you said they spoke to the metal… I heard something inside. Not a sound. Just—heat. Pressure. The feel of stone and ash folding around the shape. That pull."
He shook his head once, frustrated by the limits of words.
"I've built things. Simple things. Fixed tools. Tuned calibrators. But that—forging—it feels like it's supposed to be more. Like the fire itself is listening."
A silence fell again, heavier than before.
Plo Koon stepped closer.
"There are cultures in the Mid Rim who say the Force listens best when you shape things," he said. "Not when you speak. Not when you fight. But when you take raw matter and give it form."
"And the Mandalorians believed that deeply," Tyvokka added. "Even their earliest warriors tempered Beskar not for vanity, but for survival. For legacy."
"To them, forging was memory. Every strike is a story. Every blade has a name."
As Tyvokka spoke, something shifted in Elai. Not a dramatic change—no sudden outburst. But a kind of simmering stillness began to radiate off of him, like air above embers.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
The others felt it. Even Valorum—who had lingered near the door—turned back fully, sensing a pressure in the Force, faint but undeniable.
"Elai," Qui-Gon said softly.
The boy's jaw was set now.
"I don't want to copy them," he said.
His voice was calm, but something deeper sat beneath it. A stirring.
"I want to understand them. The ones who made things with their hands. Who spoke to steel like it mattered. Who gave names to fire."
His gaze lifted.
"Where can I learn that?"
Plo Koon exchanged a glance with Tyvokka.
Adi Gallia seemed concerned. She did not interrupt—but her posture remained wary.
Tyvokka's answer was slow. Careful.
"There are forges still. Hidden. And some Mandalorians who remember what it meant before war made everything smaller."
"But not many will teach outsiders."
"I'm not asking for their secrets," Elai said. "Only their meaning."
No one spoke for several moments.
Then Tyvokka gave a deep, rumbling breath.
"When the mission ends, we will see."
Elai didn't let the silence settle this time.
"You said Beskar," he said, turning toward Tyvokka. "That's Mandalorian metal, isn't it?"
The word lingered in his mouth. Beskar. It resonated. Like a chord struck far beneath conversation.
Tyvokka gave a slow nod.
"Iron of the stars. Metal that does not forget.:""What makes it special?" Elai asked, shifting slightly on his bench. "Why don't we use it more?"
Adi Gallia exhaled, not irritated—but preparing herself.
Plo Koon answered first. "Because it resists almost everything. Blasters. Lightsabers. Ion scatter. Even the pressure of vacuum and heat variance. It doesn't just endure. It refuses to yield."
"It doesn't shatter?" Elai asked.
"It remembers the strike," Tyvokka said. "It learns. It adjusts grain. It bends only enough to survive."
Obi-Wan leaned forward. "But we don't forge with it in the Temple. I've never even seen it outside of old field reports."
"Because," Adi cut in, "it's rare. Controlled. And the Mandalorians keep most of it within their clans. The few off-world ingots are often tainted, or alloyed, or stolen."
"But couldn't it be used for more than armor?" Elai asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "Starships. Hull plating. Heat shielding. Even… structure supports?"
"You're not wrong," Plo said. "In theory, you could reinforce a capital ship's core with it. Build a strike vessel that cuts through blockades like they're soft weave."
Elai's mind moved faster now. "But no one does?"
Tyvokka stirred.
"The metal is sacred. Mandalorians do not waste it on fleets. And those who try to buy it in bulk? They learn—quickly—that not all firepower is measured in kilotons."
"Diplomatic consequences," Valorum added from behind them. "Whole alliances have collapsed over a single shipment of raw Beskar disappearing from a vault."
Elai's lips parted slightly, processing it all.
"So it's rare, hard to work, and tied to culture. That makes it precious… but also dangerous to use wrong."
"Exactly," Qui-Gon said, smiling faintly. "You're beginning to see why Jedi don't carry it."
"But what if someone did," Elai said, "not for armor… but for something smaller. More focused. What if the metal wasn't just to protect… but to express?"
Several Jedi exchanged glances.
"You mean a lightsaber?" Obi-Wan asked cautiously.
"Yes," Elai said, after a moment.
"A lightsaber with Beskar?" Plo asked, almost bemused.
Elai shrugged slightly. "Why not?"
Tyvokka rumbled in his chest—a sound somewhere between a laugh and a low acknowledgment.
"To a Mandalorian, the forge is a choir. Every hammer strikes a note."
Elai's fingers curled slightly, thinking. "Then I want to learn its song."
There was a long pause after Elai's quiet declaration.
"Then I want to learn its song."
The words hovered in the space between them—less a statement, more a vow whispered into a future only he could sense.
Adi Gallia's arms had uncrossed now. She didn't speak, but her eyes were narrowed—not in judgment, but caution. Plo Koon tilted his head slightly, processing. Obi-Wan had gone still. And Qui-Gon… watched with the faintest crease at the corner of his mouth. Something between concern and pride.
Finally, Plo asked, "Why Beskar, Elai? Why not durasteel, Phrik, or one of the known alloys already used in lightsaber components? The crystal is the heart. The hilt only channels."
Elai took his time.
He didn't speak with certainty. But what came through his voice was more dangerous than confidence.
Clarity.
"I don't want to use Beskar because it's rare," Elai began. "Or strong. I don't care if it stops blades or blasters."
He looked toward the observation viewport—the stars unmoving beyond the silent drift of hyperspace.
"I think… Beskar listens."
That caught their attention.
Elai continued, voice low but steady.
"Everything in the Force hums. Breath. Stone. People. Even silence has a tone if you know how to hear it. But metals... Most are either too dead or too loud. They echo wrong. Like shouting into metal walls."
He turned his head slightly, toward the other Jedi.
"But Beskar… when you hold it—really hold it—it doesn't fight you. It waits. It wants to know what you mean. Before it becomes anything."
A quiet murmur of shifting robes passed through the room as Jedi subtly leaned in.
"So," Elai said, "if kyber crystals sing their own song… what happens when the metal listens back?"
Qui-Gon's expression changed—not with surprise, but recognition.
"You want resonance," he said.
Elai nodded.
"A saber isn't just a weapon. It's… it's a line between choice and instinct. Between the will and the world. If the hilt doesn't carry meaning, it's just a shell."
Plo's voice was softer now. "You think Beskar can carry that meaning?"
"I don't know," Elai admitted. "But I think it can hold it. Let the crystal breathe. Let the Force shape something together. Not just a blade to survive—but something new."
Adi Gallia finally spoke, her tone more measured than before.
"That kind of forging is forbidden in the Temple. Too many risks. Too many... unknowns."
Tyvokka rumbled, his voice cutting through.
"And yet, the old ways were born of unknowns. Jedi once built their sabers under starlight. On worlds that sang louder than doctrine."
Valorum, who had remained silent for some time, finally stepped forward. "You're not building a weapon," he said, studying Elai. "You're building a mirror."
Elai tilted his head, faintly puzzled.
Valorum smiled faintly. "One that reflects who you are. And who you might become."
The boy nodded slowly, thoughtful.
"I don't want to build it now. Not yet. I want to learn how first. Learn what it's supposed to mean."
Tyvokka's voice returned—deep, final.
"Then let the forge wait. The song will come. When you're ready to answer it."
A silence settled again after Tyvokka's final words.
Elai sat still, his posture calm—but the light behind his eyes remained alight with thought. The kind of thought that didn't just ponder, but pulled. Already, his mind was sketching blueprints not with lines, but with intuition. With purpose. With resonance.
His fingers, resting near his knees, tapped twice in rhythm. A habit born not from restlessness, but calibration.
Qui-Gon was the one who finally broke the stillness.
He stepped forward from the edge of the observation lounge, cloak brushing the polished floor. His voice wasn't stern—just dry enough to feel human, yet steady enough to hold ground.
"I think," he said, "it's time you stop thinking about sabers… and start thinking about sleep."
Elai blinked. "Sleep?"
"Rest," Qui-Gon corrected. "Dreams optional."
A few of the others chuckled quietly—Obi-Wan included, though he quickly composed himself under Adi Gallia's sidelong glance.
Elai tilted his head. "But we're in hyperspace. There's time to prepare. Time to—"
"To spiral endlessly into ideas you can't act on," Qui-Gon said. "You've already reshaped enough for one week. Maybe one lifetime."
"I'm not tired," Elai muttered.
Qui-Gon arched his brow.
"You nearly collapsed from Force overextension four days ago. You are tired. You're just too curious to feel it."
Tyvokka gave a quiet, approving rumble.
"The young burn fastest. The wise cool the fire before it consumes."
Elai didn't protest again. Instead, he leaned back slightly against the cushioned panel behind him, gaze drifting toward the viewport once more. The stars of hyperspace were still frozen in their silent stretch, like ancient lines drawn between thought and destination.
"I wasn't trying to ignore the mission," he said after a moment.
"I know," Qui-Gon replied. "But sometimes the best way to honor the path ahead is to arrive rested. Not exhausted. Your clarity will serve more than your speed."
Elai nodded slowly.
"What about the others?" he asked, almost absently. "Are they worried about this mission? About the shortage?"
"They're focused," Qui-Gon said. "But yes. Tension is rising. We'll be landing in a place where truth has been buried under a thousand negotiations. Not all problems wear armor."
"And I'm here to… listen."
"You're here because you see what others miss," Qui-Gon said. "And because Master Tyvokka believes your presence might shift something. Quietly. Subtly. That kind of power doesn't need armor either."
The boy's breath slowed.
"I'll rest, then," Elai said.
"Good," Qui-Gon said with a faint smile. "Because I have a feeling you'll need it."
The corridors of the diplomatic vessel dimmed as night-cycle lighting hummed into place, casting soft gold along the polished bulkheads. One by one, the chambers fell quiet.
Plo Koon was the first to retire—his posture straight even in rest, his room sealed with silent protocol. Adi Gallia remained in meditation a few minutes longer, then finally stood, her expression unreadable as she stepped through the door to her quarters. Tyvokka didn't move far. He sat just beyond the bridge, eyes half-closed, not meditating—but listening.
Obi-Wan gave Elai a short nod as he passed, already half-yawning. "Don't stay up too long," he muttered.
"I won't."
Qui-Gon lingered a moment longer by the viewport. His hand rested on the frame—thoughtful, distant. Then he turned, his voice low.
"Sleep well, Elai."
"You too," Elai said quietly.
Soon the corridors emptied, and only the hum of the ship remained.
Elai sat alone a while longer, then finally rose and walked the short path to his room—modest, simple, unfamiliar.
He lay back without a word, arms folded behind his head. His eyes stayed open a little longer.
The stars didn't move, but something in the Force did.
Then at last, sleep found them all.